(Yes, MC is Kaz Brekker coded.)

You’re much more of a headache than he had anticipated.

It was hard enough to catch you— being the slippery little thing you are. You’re practically engraved in the shadows, and half of Fontaine thinks you’re an urban legend simply because no one has seen much of your face before.

Once, while keeping a very dutiful eye on you, he had seen you take someone’s wallet and replace it with a radish. The only reason he knew that that was the situation was because the person soon found the radish just a few seconds later.

He had anticipated the replace, and had been keeping a hawk eye on every move you made, and he had still been unable to pinpoint the exact moment that you had slipped out the wallet and slipped in the vegetable.

So, while not being by any means a very religious man, he considered it a miracle of Celestia herself that he managed to track you and drag you down to the underwater prisoner that is the Fortress of Meropide.

The only reason he assumes you haven’t escaped yet is because he drugs you every night and has you sleep in a brand new cell just made for you that happens to be right next to his office, separated by only a door in which he keeps locked whenever you’re inside.

He lets you out, though. He’s not cruel, despite the rumors. He’ll unlock your door and allow you to roam the fortress as well as eat freely in the dining area. He even gives you the good grace of allowing you to compete in the Pankration Ring.

He’s starting to regret giving you such privilege.

Despite your bad leg and your lack of cane, you circle him like a tiger. He can practically see your metaphorical tiger tail swishing in the air, electrified with the anticipation of a fight.

The crowd is silent as the two of you stalk around one another.

He’s looking for tells, something that’ll give him a hint as to what your weaknesses are. Obviously, your limp is a tell of your bad leg, but he’s already aware of that. But he’s observing your breathing patterns. The way you draw in a quick breath, and let out a slow one. The way your weight is skewed to the balls of your feet, the way your eyes will occasionally leave his own to look for his own tells.

He desperately hopes you can’t see them.

The ringing of the bell starts the round, and you pounce on him in seconds. He tries a right hook on you, which you dodge and instead go for an outlaw choke. He manages to grab your arm and twist it behind your back before you can successfully complete the move, but you manage to wriggle out of it before he can pin you down.

You brawl and brawl for what feels like hours before you’ve straddled him, hand around his throat, sweat dripping down you so tantalizingly, like chocolate sauce on ice cream.

“You fight like a street thug.” He observes in a conversational manner, hands wrapping around your arms.

“Kinda my thing, Your Grace.” He pins you down under him, his hand now the one wrapping around your throat.

You won’t get up. He knows you won’t. The audience— at least some in the audience— know you won’t. You’re in too much pain. You’ve already fought at the very least with 8 other people and are sustaining injuries that he believes will soon be fatal if you don’t go to the infirmary.

As he starts to wonder when he suddenly gained such sympathy and worry for you, you pass out on him.